The first lost wallet story (which happened two or three weeks ago) is so embarassing I didn’t want to mention it, but Tatyana insisted. She thinks it’s hilarious. It makes me feel gloomy just to think about it, much less share it with the world. But what the hell.

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Yesterday Donald Trump called the Baltimore district repped by House Oversight Committee Chairman Elijah Cummings a “disgusting, rat and rodent infested mess.”

Tatyana and I are north-of-Sunset Beverly Hills hikers. We like to start around dusk and finish up in the dark. Three or four times we’ve humped it up Angelo Drive and then hung a sharp right onto Cielo Drive (which offers access to the private drive where the Sharon Tate murder house once stood) and then back down Benedict Canyon. I’m presuming that a lot of lookie-lous are going to be roaming around this area for the next two or three weeks.

“Red House,” initially posted on 7.8.12: “I was on the scooter yesterday afternoon, buzzing along Mulholland and in and out the canyons and trails and cul de sacs between Beverly Glen to Laurel Canyon. And I found myself hanging a subconscious right onto Cielo Drive off Benedict Canyon south, and up to an area that used to be known as 10050 Cielo Drive.

“This was the site of Robert Byrd‘s now-demolished California ranch-styled home where Polanski’s late ex, Sharon Tate, and four others — Abigail Folger, Steven Parent, Voytek Frykowski and Jay Sebring — were murdered by the Manson family on August 9, 1969.

“I knew that Trent Reznor lived there for two or three years in the early ’90s, and that the place had been torn down in ’94 and that a nouveau-riche Moorish-Mediterranean monstrosity called “Villa Bella” was built in its place by producer Jeff Franklin (Full House). The original street number was also erased — the address is now 10066 Cielo Drive.

“I stood on the other side of the canyon and told myself that anyone who would trash the original single-storied structure, which had a nice homey vibe with a pool and a guest house and was painted red with white trim with huge trees on the grounds, and then cut down the trees and build a ghastly Uday Hussein-style Euro-mansion, must be a real animal.

All hail the new Shout Factory Bluray of Joseph Newman and Jack Arnold‘s This Island Earth (’55). I’ve never been a fan of this well-written if somewhat rickety programmer — it’s respectably intelligent rather than riveting. But the huge cranium belonging to Jeff Morrow‘s “Exeter” character is as much of an icon of ’50s sci-fi as James Arness‘s thorn-fingered “thing”, and Clifford Stine‘s color cinematography delivers a lush palette. And the new Bluray is worth its weight in gold because it delivers 4K scans of two aspect-ratio versions (1.85:1 and 1.37:1). The shots of Morrow’s super-tall forehead in the 1.37 version give new meaning to the term “headroom.”

“The progressives are the modern Puritans. The Massachusetts Bay Colony is alive and well on the Potomac and Twitter. They eviscerate their natural allies for not being pure enough, [but] the politics of purism makes people stupid. And nasty.

“My father stayed up all night the night Truman was elected because he was so excited. I would like to stay up ’til dawn the night a Democrat wins next year because I’m so excited to see the moment when the despicable Donald Trump lumbers into a Ma rine helicopter and flies away for good.

“But Democrats are making that dream ever more distant because they are using their time knifing one another and those who want to be on their side instead of playing it smart.

“The recipe for emotional satisfaction on the part of the progressive left is not a recipe for removing Trump from the White House.” — from Maureen Dowd‘s “Spare Me The Purity Racket,” N.Y. Times, 7.27.19.

I’m presuming that The Irishman director Martin Scorsese wanted to de-age Robert De Niro and others in a way that was significantly more realistic than the Michael Douglas de-aging in Ant Man and the Wasp.

I actually had no problems with the Douglas de-aging, but then I’m not really familiar with how good or exacting de-aging technology can be these days. It’s advanced significantly, I’m guessing, over the last five years.

BTW: A major film festival announcement regarding Scorsese and The Irishman is imminent. I’m not the only one who’s been presuming all along that Scorsese’s period crime film would premiere at the New York Film Festival (9.27 to 10.3) because of his longstanding friendship and alliance with NYFF honcho Kent Jones. But who knows? Perhaps another festival or two will figure into things. Just a matter of sitting tight.

This trailer for Amazon’s Modern Love doesn’t exactly exude depth. Or any semblance of truth. Seemingly cut from the Love Actually cloth, which is death to me. Give me stories about love affairs that don’t pan out, and spare me the happy vibes. Or play songs like Neil Young‘s “Only Love Can Break Your Heart,” Bob Dylan‘s “Love Is Just A Four-Letter Word,” Boy George‘s “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?”, J. Geils‘ “Love Stinks” or Burt Bacharach‘s “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again”.

A few hours ago an attorney friend caught a 10 am showing of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. He texted me an hour ago: “I liked it. Almost saw it twice.” Yesterday a name-brand post-production guy saw it and wrote that he “loved it!” And yet it has a B grade on Cinemascore. Thw downvoters are almost certainly your Millennial and GenZ ticket buyers. Half of them don’t know the 10050 Cielo Drive murder saga so the ending doesn’t work for them. Case in point: Those 20something women who were sitting next to me last night and talking on and off, apparently out of boredom. OUATIH is mainly for 40-plus viewers.

Highway tolls are collected via E-ZPass (created in ’87) or by throwing coins into a metal bin. Human toll-collectors — people dressed in some dull gray uniform whom drivers literally hand coins to — are still around, I guess, but not, I would guess, for much longer.

Back in the pre-automated ’70s manned tollbooths were fairly common. On the Connecticut turnpike a red traffic light would beam as you approached the toll station. You would come to a halt, hand over 50 or 75 cents to the guy/gal, the light would turn green and you’d gun it.

One dusky evening in ’77 I was approaching a West Haven toll station on the Connecticut turnpike. I was driving my slightly dusty 1975 LTD station wagon, which always got lousy gas mileage. I realized a mile out that I didn’t quite have the full 50 cents, and I had no cash in the wallet. I was counting the coins as I approached…a quarter, a dime, a nickel and six pennies…no, seven pennies! Three cents short. I sure as shit wasn’t going to pull over and accept some kind of traffic summons for being three cents light…c’mon. So I decided to be Steve McQueen in The Getaway.

I pulled up to the booth and handed the guy 47 cents. I started to inch forward as he was counting and saying out loud “35, 40…hold on, hold on.” I hit the gas and the guy freaked — “Hey, wait a minute, whoa!” There was no gate so the red light and the violation alarm (ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!) would have to go fuck themselves. I was Clyde Barrow after a bank robbery.

The booth guy went into fury mode…”Hey, hey…stohhhhp!…whoooaaa!” I looked in my rearview as I pulled away. The guy had stepped out of the booth and onto the road, standing in a half-crouch position…”whoooaaa!!”

I contemplated my situation as I drove away. I had just broken Connecticut state law and didn’t feel good about that. But there was something a bit wrong with that guy. I wasn’t a criminal. It wasn’t like I’d given him 12 or 13 cents or something. Who screams and shouts over a three-cent shortage? Within seconds I’d completely shorn myself of guilt over shortchanging the state, and decided that the toolbooth guy…that howling uniformed goon…was the asshole in this situation, not me.

Did the toll-booth guy get my license plate? (This was before the era of instant photographic capture.) Would he put in a call to the state police, telling them to pull over a young long-haired guy in a brown LTD wagon? I considered getting off the turnpike and driving for a few miles on local roads, just to be safe. Then I realized how loony-tunes that would be. The toll-booth guy was just an oddball freak, a lonely guy without a life or a sense of cosmic balance. I stayed on the turnpike and all was well.

But that haunted feeling of being a lawbreaker on the run is still with me.

Brad Gray‘s Ad Astra (Disney, 9.20) isn’t going to Telluride, despite my 7.25 suggestion-projection. And it seems as if Tom Harper‘s The Aeronauts (Amazon, 11.12) is going there, to judge by two excerpts from Deadline and Hollywood Reporter stories.

Deadline‘s Andreas Wiseman: “The Tom Harper-directed movie has been widely tipped to debut at a major fall festival. Our sources indicate Telluride is currently in the plans, not least due to the higher presence of Academy voters at the Rocky Mountain fest.”

THR‘s Pamela Mclintock: “At the same time, Amazon continues to have major awards ambitions for The Aeronauts, which is tipped for play at both the Telluride and Toronto Film Festivals. The adventure-drama reunites Jones and Redmayne for the first time since awards darling The Theory of Everything.”

HE’s latest Telluride roster (hat tip to World of Reel‘s Jordan Ruimy):

Marriage Story, d: Noah Baumbach
Ford v Ferrari, d: James Mangold
Judy, d: Rupert Goold
Uncut Gems, d: The Safdies
Motherless Brooklyn, d: Edward Norton
The Truth, d: Kore-eda
The Aeronauts, d: Tom Harper
Wasp Network, d: Olivier Assayas
The Two Popes, d: Fernando Mereilles
Portrait of a Lady on Fire, d: Celine Sciamma
Pain and Glory, d: Pedro Almodovar
Parasite, d: Bong Joon-ho
Varda by Agnes, d: Agnes Varda

Ruimy email: “I’ve heard from more than one person that the new Baumbach is a masterpiece. Marriage Story is going to Venice, Telluride, Toronto and New York. No other movie is doing that.”

Tatyana and I were in the second row during yesterday’s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood screening. Five or six seats from the left-side aisle. Just before the lights dimmed four 20something chatty casuals — two dudes, two pretty girls — sat to our immediate left. “Troublemakers,” I muttered to myself as they were chit-chatting from the get-go. They’d stop for a while and then resume. Delightful.

About 90 minutes in the guys got up and left for a long stretch. (What kind of moron leaves a major hot-ticket film for 10 or 12 minutes?) Then the girls started talking again, and suddenly I’d had enough.

I leaned over, eyeballed the main offender and said, “Would you mind not talking, please? Thanks.” She responded with an eye-roll look that said “well, if you want to be an asshole about it, I guess we could stop talking, yeah…I mean, if you insist…God.”

Then their boyfriends came back, and maybe five minutes later the women were yapping again. I looked over at the loudest of the two and gave her a look that said “really? I asked you nicely before and you’re talking anyway?”

The guy next to me saw my expression, felt the vibe and said “calm down…calm down.” A part of me wanted to go all Don Logan on his ass, but my death-ray look had been sufficient, I felt, and I wanted to stay with the film.

Then the calm-down guy, having decided that my facial expression wasn’t chill enough, said, “Jesus, you’re gonna make a thing out of this?” He hadn’t been around for warning #1, of course. At the time he and the other guy were probably chit-chatting with each other in the men’s room.

The women were the main culprits. In my humble judgment they were (and probably still are) nothing less than Don Logans-in-training. Incapable of basic empathy, listening only to their own whims, appalled that anyone would suggest that they consider the feelings of others.

Textbook definition of ASPD, or antisocial personality disorder: “People with ASPD can’t understand others’ feelings. They’ll often break rules or make impulsive decisions without feeling guilty for the harm they cause.”

After exiting yesterday’s 5:30 pm show of Once Upon A Time in Hollywood at the Hollywood Arclight (theatre #13), I spotted a few dozen copies of a special promotional magazine lying on a table in the lobby. Obviously funded by Sony marketing and apparently edited by Quentin Tarantino, it’s a kind of mock fan magazine that sells the 1969 world of Leonardo DiCaprio‘s Rick Dalton. A friend informs that the publication “was on every seat at the Chinese premiere [last] Monday night, kinda QT’s tip-of-the-hat to the 60’s era when movie programs were a regular thing for event and roadshow films.”

The magazine also contains ads for various Tarantino products — Red Apple cigarettes, Big Kahuna burgers, Wolf’s Tooth dog food. Here are some shots of the contents: